User blog comment:Bartholomew Bilberry Bowstring/The First of Many/@comment-32303-20160426040820/@comment-26024035-20160427214409

The otter known as Scuttle shoved his fox captive forward, and with no way to balance herself, she hit the ground hard and rolled over, gritting her teeth in pain. Dried blood glistened caked in the vixen's fur as she bared her teeth up at Malachi, her green eyes shining with the desperation of a caged animal. Scuttle's partner, a young tan-furred fieldmouse by the name of Thistle, pressed his javelintip to the fox's throat as Scuttle wiped his paws with a big smile on his rough, battle-scarred features. "Caught this'n near the Gorge whilst we was scoutin', Mister Malachi." He declared with pride in his voice. "Seemed she was plannin' t' crawl right o'er th' walls."

Malachi MacDougal, as second in command, had been sent by Shelran to inspect the small bands of scouts and spies lurking about the wood closest to the Gorge. A prisoner, especially one from Runksneer's ranks, might be an interesting thing to return with.